


Context

by myeerah



Series: Form Letters [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Declarations Of Love, F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeerah/pseuds/myeerah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a Declaration of Romantic Intent.  </p><p>Context for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136?view_full_work=true">Love Note (form 22)</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's mind while filling out that first form. A companion piece to [Love Note (form 22)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/1816230).

It was stupid.

It was so ridiculously stupid, and Sherlock hated himself.

Such a stupid, simple thing that billions of humans managed on a daily basis.

_John, I find myself interested in pursuing this friendship of ours, and hope it might develop into more._

_Sherlock, I’m not gay._

Quite.

Not quite.

_John, I find you fascinating and want to know more._

_Nope, not going to be your guinea pig.  Besides, what more could you possibly know about me?_

It would never work.  Maybe if he actually knew what he wanted, then there would be something to work with, but this?  This vague… _feeling_ of wanting some, unspecified _more_ …

_John, I want to explore the sensation of keloid tissue versus healthy tissue._

_Right, have fun with that.  I’m sure Molly’s got a corpse in you can play with._

All of which led him to this:  a ridiculous form letter, flexible enough so as not to imply more than he intended, but pointed enough to provide actual direction.  Pen in resolutely steady hand, Sherlock approached the form.

 _Name of recipient_ was simple enough.  John.  There.  Even if he wrote nothing else, the nature of the form combined with an addressee would be enough to make it clear that something needed discussion.

 _Superlative_ caused some problems.  Parroting John’s own words back at him in Dartmoor had not resulted in the immediate forgiveness he’d needed, and would likely just remind John of what a failure Sherlock was at humanity.  He knew he was only barely passable at the best of times.  Well, that’s it, then.  John was immensely passable at humanity.

 _Adjective of magnitude._ Given that humanity was not a goal of his, typical hyperbole would not suffice.  The very fact that John’s humanity was desirable was surprising.  Fine, then.

 _Undesirable human quality_ : Dull.  Easy. 

 _Remarkable characteristic?_    The affair at Baskerville may not have provided superlatives, but it did recall John’s secondhand brilliance.  He refracted and magnified light in dazzling ways.  Scintillating.

 _Plotline of your fantasy._   Groaning, Sherlock rubbed at his temples.  _Climbing inside your skin so I can know you completely_ would give the wrong impression.  _Taking your hand in mine and never letting go_ wasn’t much better.  _Feeling you come undone under my hands_ was entirely the wrong signal.  Short, to the point, and hinted along the proper paths?  Suggestive without being evocative?  Touch.  He wanted to _touch_ John Watson in every sense of the word. 

 _Body parts (plural)_ was nonsensical.  He was not driven by lust, and certainly not by lust for the physical.  John, the damaged warrior, the fractured healer, scarred, but whole.  Scars?  Scars.

 _Rare or precious thing_ was simplicity itself.  Nothing was more rare or precious than a good puzzle. 

 _Body part (singular)_ raised the same issue, but he was getting better at this metaphor game.  He wanted John for his character, which was seated in his brain, therefore he wanted John for his ostensibly prosaic yet endlessly fascinating mind.

 _Something desirable_ was cocaine.  It would be so much easier to eviscerate himself onto paper were he able to get that perfect high where everything was bright and sparking.  People were so much easier to deal with when his brain was fizzing like champagne. 

 _An extreme act_ was a little trickier.  Anything Sherlock would consider extreme John would consider emphatically _not good_ and therefore would be counterproductive.  What would John think of as extreme?  His eye fell on the previous answer of precious puzzles; John would appreciate Sherlock prioritizing him over a puzzle, but would paradoxically be angry if he did so to the detriment of others.  A compromise?  Focus on John above lower grades: a mid-point, nothing too high, but high enough for regard.  John would rank equally with a six. 

 _Goal of such an absurd action_ was ultimately the overall goal.  What did Sherlock want, with his fantasies of living in a small doctor’s skin and knowing a soldier from the inside out?  Better, how would be go about learning all of him?  Clearly, the way he learned everything else.  Observation.

Closing the boilerplate was simple, they were flatmates, and after the last debacle Sherlock was hesitant to put forth his miserable attempts at friendship, so flatmate it was. 

On to the multiple choice.

 _Extent of interest._ On a scale of intrigued to infatuated.  There was nothing fatuous about his interest, and this was more than the simple intrigue of their initial meeting.  _I have a bit of a crush_ sounded insanely juvenile.  He scratched in the oval just prior to that. 

 _I have felt this way since_ with a scale between _I was born_ and _this morning_.  Clearly nothing sooner than actually meeting John would do, and as that was the mid-point, the scale was severely limited.  If this is more than intrigue, and intrigue began at meeting, it must be some point later than that.  Of the two options remaining, he chose the earlier one.

 _Suggested activities_ was horrifying.  _Growing old_ was an easy selection, because he could think of nothing he’d like better than to always have this ordinary, extraordinary man by his side.  It was also passive, and John required action.  They already lived together, and he’d already marked one passive thing.  He wasn’t about to mark two.  Dancing held promise, but John would associate it with romantic claptrap.  The only other actionable, non-terrifying option was kissing.  Kissing would be acceptable.  Kissing.  Kissing John.  Best not linger. 

 _Please reply_ was easy.  He wanted to know immediately rather than languish in limbo, although it would be unfair to demand an in person reply when he was leaving a note, so both options were checked.

For the last, it was time for damage control.  John was unpredictable in some ways, and it was hard to determine whether he’d be amused by this, angered, or even, least likely, open to it. 

Extremely least likely, in fact.  Best put it away until he had given it more thought.  Later.

For now, he had Moriarty’s trial to attend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds the note and writes his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This corresponds with chapter 2 of [Love Note (form 22)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/1833417).

That fucking cock.

That unmitigated, rat-arsed _fuck!_

How dare he?  How _dare_ he leave a fucking _love letter_ for John to find?

That complete and utter _prick!_

Collapsing into his chair seemed like the only viable option.

He wasn’t Sherlock, he couldn’t tell how long ago it had been written.  He didn’t know if it was planted for him to find or deliberately hidden away.  He didn’t know, couldn’t know, would _never_ know. 

He stared at the silly, fill-in-the-blank form, blinking furiously as he willed Sherlock’s familiar, spiky handwriting to come back into focus.

It was so secondary school.  He might as well have done up a little “Do you like me?” quiz, only with Sherlock the answers would have been, “Of course, it is easily deduced by how you take your tea,” and “This is meaningless, I already know your answer,” instead of the standard yes/no.

Although...this seemed surprisingly vulnerable.  The closing note about his probable rejection hurt the worst, although his inability to grasp a better euphemism for “attraction” than actually just writing “attraction” was comically painful.

The man laid himself bare, tucked the evidence away in a chapter on chemical reactions, then threw himself off a building before John’s very eyes.

Trembling, John took up a pen, flipped the note over, and began writing back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade sees Sherlock a bit after the bomb scare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to chapter 3 of [Love Note (form 22)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2250571).

“Gary.”

“It’s Greg.”

“Yes, of course.”

Greg eyed the madman with the manic grin and gleaming eyes.  “Was that John?  Made up, have you?”

Said madman made a throaty, humming noise.  “Yes, it seems he’s quite forgiven me the deception.”

“I knew you’d work it out, mate.”

“Yes, well, it only required a bomb threat.”  The poncy arsehole looked smug.  “I didn’t even need to run out the clock.”

Greg sputtered.  “You made him forgive you, thinking you were going to die?”

“Yes, of course.”  The great git had the nerve to look irate.  “He wasn’t accepting any apologies or explanations otherwise.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you are a miserable excuse for a human being and should be ashamed of yourself.  Not that you’d know how to begin with that,” he added, sourly.

“What, why?”  The idiot looked like he’d been kicked.  “He forgave me, we’re alive, what’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong_ ,” Greg explained through gritted teeth, “is that you willfully led a man into believing he was going to die and used the excuse to get what you wanted.  That, Sherlock, is _not on_.”

“But… I don’t…”

“You owe John Watson a proper apology.  You wrecked him for two years, you can take the time to let him choose to forgive you.  If you don’t, there’s _going_ to be resentment.  Make it believable.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary receive Sherlock's apology and discuss what it means to them.
> 
> A companion piece to chapter 4 of [Love Note (form 22).](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2252505)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to mention that none of this has been betaed or Brit-picked. If you happen to spot any errors, please please please let me know.

Bill, advert, advert, bill…hand-delivered letter?  No postal marks, no address, even.  Just _John_ across the front.

“John?” Mary called.  “There’s something for you in the post.”

“What is it?” he asked from the kitchen.

“I think you should open it yourself.”  She had a pretty good idea who it was from, after all.

Moments later John came back, bearing tea and a kiss.  She exchanged envelope for mug—and stole a kiss of her own—and settled back to watch.

John looked at his name for a long moment and sank onto the sofa with a groan.  “I can only imagine why he’s sending me letters.”

“Good thing you don’t have to imagine it, love,” Mary teased.  “You can just open it and find out.”

“You are a spiteful and vindictive woman.”

“And I love you, too.”

They shared a smile before John returned his attention to the letter addressed in an all-too-familiar hand.  Bracing himself for whatever oddity Sherlock may have sent this time, he ran a finger under the lip and pulled it open.

He was still unprepared for what he found.

For several minutes he sat, frozen, staring at the paper in his hand.

“John?”  Mary nudged him.  “What is it?”

“It’s…an apology.”  He blinked rapidly.  “He found another of those ridiculous blank forms and sent me a formal apology and request for forgiveness.”  Huffing out a little laugh, he added, “He’s still pants at filling these out.”

“Okaaaay,” Mary drawled.  “I’m not sure which question I want answered first.  How can he be bad at filling out a form?  What’s he apologizing for this time?  What do you mean ‘another’ form?”  At his wide-eyed look, she said, “In that case, I definitely want to know what you mean by another form.”

A quick shudder ran through him.  “I’d almost forgotten,” he murmured.  “About two months after he…died…I, uh, knocked over a pile of books he’d left.  A note fell out of one.  A chemistry book.  It didn’t come all the way out, just enough for me to notice it.  He’d tucked it into a bit about chemical reactions.  He was always leaving things in the oddest places.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed.  “And what was the note you found after you had your grief tantrum?”

“Grief tantrum?”

“John.”  Mary interrupted the budding rant.  Her voice was kind.  “I know you.  I can picture the scene fairly clearly.  What did the note say?”

Deflated, he muttered, “It was a love letter.”

“A love letter?” she said with a laugh.  “To whom?”  She caught sight of John’s face, and the look on it killed every thought of amusement.

“To me,” he said, scarcely audible.  “It was…it was juvenile.  It was poorly done.  Damning with faint praise, full of questionable allusions—he said my mind was like cocaine, if I recall correctly—and the most painfully sincere thing I’ve ever seen.  I remember,” his voice cracked, and he tried again.  “Mary, I remember that he’d written a note at the end, to the effect of how he knew I would reject him, but he still wanted us to live together and I should just ignore the whole thing.  Christ, that’s probably why he never actually gave it to me.”  He closed his eyes and bit hard on his lip.

She edged in closer and ran gentle fingers through his close-cropped hair.  “It’s not surprising that he loves you.  And you love him, too.  It’s alright.”

“Damn it, Mary, I’m not gay.  I love you.  I’m marrying you.  Sherlock bloody Holmes does not enter into it.” For all his irritation, he mostly sounded tired.  A little resigned.  Not angry.

“I know, love.”  She pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.  “I like to think I’d have noticed if you were gay.  I don’t even think you’re bisexual.  You might also notice,” and here she grew pointed, “that I didn’t mention sex.  I said _love._ ”  She tapped the tip of his nose in remonstration.  “There’s all kinds of love, John.”

They shared a long moment, gazing into each other’s eyes.  She leaned in for a slow, soft kiss before pulling back and nestling herself into his arms.  “Which is not to say that I don’t think you might have made an exception…”

He giggled and squeezed her once.  “I wrote a note back.  On the back of his note.  To a man I thought was dead.  God only knows what I was thinking, I was so angry.  I basically told him that he lost any chance of finding out how I would have reacted because he’d gone and bloody killed himself, which was a damn shame because I would have been up for kissing.”  He shook his head, laughing painfully.  “It was all he’d asked for: stay together and maybe kiss.  This, from a man with no concept of personal space who takes everything like it’s his due.  _God._ ”

“Hey.”  Rocking gently in his arms, Mary tried to soothe him.  “You know what you should do?  Send him back one of his form letters.  Show him how to do it properly.  You never did say what he was apologising for, either.”

“Here.” He pushed the paper at her and let her read it.  “He’s dreadful at this.”

Reading it over, Mary was forced to agree.  “At least this apology is slightly more heartfelt than begrudging,” she laughed.  “Oh, the poor dear.  Still doesn’t understand why it bothered you.  Doesn’t even know how to say he won’t do it again.  There’s an imprint on here; let’s see if we can find more forms like this.”

As it happened, there were, and they could.  Best of all, there was a codified grant of forgiveness, complete with Americanisms and absurd fine print.  The first thing they did was to mark out and alter all of the location details.  John couldn’t help but add a snide note invoking Sherlock’s brother, purely out of spite.

“I wonder why he sent you this,” Mary mused while John added insulting commentary.  “Hadn’t he already gotten you to forgive him?”

“Yes, by threat of bomb.”

“Be honest with yourself.”  She gave him a playful nudge.  “You’d already forgiven him, it just took you awhile to ‘fess up to it.”

“Hush your wicked tongue, woman.”  He smirked.  “He doesn’t have to know that.”

“I’d say there isn’t much chance of his not knowing that, but I’ve noticed he does have some pretty severe blind spots.”

“Truer words and all that,” John sighed.

“So, resigned yourself to forgiveness, then?”

“Painfully so.”

“I’m glad.” She leaned in for another kiss. “I was getting tired of you moping about, mooning after him.”

“Yes, clearly I was the one mooning after him.  Greg tells me he was talking to me at crime scenes.”

“Mutual mooning, then.  He’s your closest friend, love.  You _may_ not love him romantically, but you still clearly need a great, swooping lunatic in your life in order to feel whole.”  Another kiss.  Longer.

“I feel a tad concerned that my fiancée keeps trying to convince me that I’m in love with another man.”  Another kiss.

Heart pounding, Mary said, “Search your feelings, John.  You know it to be true.”

Their eyes met for an instant before they burst into helpless laughter.

Sherlock bloody Holmes could sweat it out for a few more days.  A little time on tenterhooks would do him good, and there was another form on there that John wanted to make use of.  It was time to clear the air with the consulting idiot and make it quite clear that he was still wanted, still loved.

Later, though.

They’d wrap up both forms in ostentatious envelopes and present them quite dramatically, but that could wait.  There was a different kind of love that needed exercising, right now


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Formal forgiveness fills Sherlock with glee, but the demand to know about that long ago love letter does exactly the opposite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion to chapters [5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2264451) and [6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2264456) of Love Note (form 22).
> 
> Both works remain unbeta'd and lacking in Brit-picking. If you spot something, please do share with the class so that I might fix it.

Sherlock paused inside the doorway to his flat: John and Mary had been here.

It had been four days since he’d last seen John, three since he’d dropped his written apology off at their flat.  The one time he’d decided to leave the flat—he absently pulled out a cigarette from the fresh pack—and contrary John decided to stop by.  Sherlock had anticipated it would take him either two days or seven to come back by.  Mary must have a more significant impact than he thought.

Tracing their paths was simplicity.  Mary’s perfume lingered in a faint tracery about the kitchen, but was strongest at John’s chair.  She’d clearly sat there, idling leafing through a book, while John absently tidied stacks of papers, adjusted the placement of the skull, and placed a gold-embossed envelope prominently atop his microscope.

Following the unspoken directive to observe closely, he opened the envelope to find a piece of ink-jet printer compatible cardstock and a smaller, red envelope.

The former was a decree of forgiveness, printed from the same site as the apology Sherlock had delivered, absolving him of his transgressions in counterfeiting his death and, presumably, keeping it a secret from John.  The form was littered with handwritten addendums: insulting his choice in forms, invoking his ghastly brother, and an ominous note promising revenge.

For a long moment, Sherlock stood there, forgiveness in hand, feeling an odd sort of palpitation in his chest.  He placed the document beneath the skull on the mantle and briefly rested his hand on the curve of the cranium.  He then collected the red envelope and returned to his chair before taking a deep breath and opening it.

He.

It.

John.

It was.

He’d found it.

John had found it.

Sherlock had deliberately blocked out the ludicrous, _pathetic_ note he’d once tried using to codify the emotions he couldn’t help but have around John, and John had _found_ it.

This was John’s chosen vengeance for the embarrassment and fear he’d suffered when he’d thought they were about to die.  This time there hadn’t been _please God, let me live_ , there had been _you were the best and wisest man that I have ever known_.

The previous sensation in his chest had given way to something cold and tight with creeping tendrils.

This was the price he had to pay for being so stupid as to let himself care: humiliate himself on the altar of John’s apathy.  John was happy, John was in love, John was getting married, and Sherlock’s punishment was to watch that happen without even the comfort of knowing that John was oblivious to Sherlock’s pain.

Assuming he felt any.  Which he didn’t.  Clearly.  Sociopaths weren’t known for feeling the pain of rejection, after all.

Best get on with it.  It was time to pull the coins from his eyes and pay the ferryman.

It was the work of a moment to find and print a copy of the same form he’d struggled with over two years ago.  Feeling a perfectly logical sense of _déjà vu_ about the whole thing, Sherlock took up a pen in a resolutely steady hand and began bearing his underbelly.

 _Name of recipient._   John.  Obviously.

 _Superlative._   Remarkable.  Worthy of remark.  John was worthy of a great deal more than that, as he inspired a remarkable lack of self-preservation in Sherlock.

 _Undesirable human quality._  Boring.  Whatever else he may be, John was never boring.

 _Remarkable characteristic._   There was that word again.  John had inspired him to repetition.  Impressive.

 _Plotline of your fantasy._   That was obvious, wasn’t it?  He wanted nothing more or less than to keep John, however impossible that was.  Rather the definition of fantasy, then.

 _Body parts (plural)_ still posed a problem, as John’s body was the least of him  No, what had impressed Sherlock, then and now, was John’s strong moral centre.  It was unyielding, brilliant, and could and did cut through opposition like a diamond-tipped saw.  Which neatly covered _rare or precious thing_ as well.

 _Body part (singular)_ was equally irritating, but he was determined to see this through.  His dedication would be no less than John’s, even if it was no longer focused on Sherlock.  Unlike his long-ago glib answer when John had demanded to know if Sherlock cared even a little about Moriarty’s victims, he no longer found it easy to be aloof.  It was some strange equation, where the mere fact of John Watson’s existence meant that Sherlock Holmes had to care.

 _An extreme act_.  Sherlock was more than willing to steal from the palace.  He’d been willing to go underground for years for John’s protection.  If pressed, he’d probably go so far as to murder someone for John’s sake.  None of that would impress John, though.  The single most extreme thing he could think of was the act of letting go.  Voluntarily turning his back and never again hearing John call him amazing  Letting John be happy with his fiancée.  Letting John just _be_.  All so that he could be happy.

The cold spot in his chest grew with the thought, closing his throat and twisting his stomach.  His eyes hurt with the very idea.  Still, he knew that he’d do it.

The next two lines requested reciprocation and response.  Fighting a shiver—he needed to see what was wrong with the heating—he marked them through.  He signed off as a friend, hoping it was true.  They had no other tie.  He comforted himself with the knowledge that he would be John’s friend, no matter how John felt in return.

The remainder of the form went quickly.  Infatuation was still absurd: there was nothing fatuous about his feelings and therefore the next option was quickly marked in.  He’d felt like this since shortly after the beginning of their acquaintance, so that was also easily marked.

 _Suggested activities_ was left blank.  He would make no demands.  No request for a reply.  Just a quick, scribbled note, wishing for John’s happiness.

That would be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reads Sherlock's latest love letter. There's cuddles, guilt, and shouting, in alphabetical order.

That envelope hadn’t been there an hour ago.  John picked it up from the floor by the front door and was unsurprised to see his name written across the front in a familiar hand.  He waffled momentarily between waiting for Mary to finish her shower and facing this alone before slumping down onto the sofa and opening the latest note.

Less than twenty minutes later, Mary emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp and wrapped in a towel, wearing John’s dressing gown, and humming quietly to herself.  Seeing her fiancé frozen, pale, and trembling on the sofa she darted over to him.

“John?  Love?  What’s wrong?”  She felt for his pulse.  “What happened?”

His heartbeat was strong and steady, if a bit fast.  “Talk to me, love.  What’s going on?”

Unblinking, he grabbed at something out of her sight on the other side of the sofa, and thrust a slightly crumpled piece of paper at her.

Taking it from him, she read it quickly, closed her eyes for a long beat, then joined him on the sofa and gathered him into her arms.  He buried his face in her breast as she stroked his hair and made soothing nonsense noises.

They sat that way for a long time.

“What do I do?” he asked, eventually, sounding utterly wrecked.  “Mary, what do I do with this?”

“What do you want to do?” she asked carefully.

He sat up abruptly.  “I want to grab him by his ridiculous coat and shake him until his teeth fall out!” he snapped.  “I want him to have a brain scan to make sure he hasn’t suffered some sort of head trauma!  I want to marry you and have my friend and _not_ have to worry about either of you getting your wires crossed!”

She pushed him back. “You listen to me, John Watson,” she said, over his indignant splutter.  “That man loves you.  You asked him to explain himself and he bared his soul with no hope of reciprocation.  That is the most selfless thing I have ever witnessed, and you will be properly grateful for that display of trust, is that clear?”

“Grateful?” he scoffed.  “Why the _fuck_ should I be grateful that he’s trying to guilt trip me?”

“Guilt trip?” Her voice rose dangerously.  “You honestly believe that a man who let you beat him to a pulp when he was already clearly injured, who tore across London and burned himself rather severely to rescue you when you refused to talk to him, and who bled his heart onto paper for you at your request is trying to guilt trip _you?_   You are the one committing that sin, John.  Not Sherlock.”

Sitting back a bit, taking in John’s stunned expression, she added, “Well, you and me.  I think that was a pretty effective guilt trip, don’t you?”

The tension drained out of him, leaving John limp on the sofa, his head rolled back and staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah.  Pretty impressive.  I look forward to seeing what you can do when I really upset you.”  He huffed a little laugh and turned back to her.  “I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you don’t, but you’re stuck with me anyway.”  Her mouth quirked up in a half smile.  “I’m not as selfless as Sherlock.  I wouldn’t let you go without a fight.”

Eyes closed, he shook his head.  “He’s a dirty fighter, you know.  Quick.  Clever.”

Mary nudged his shoulder with her own.  “I could take him.  It’s your own fault, you know,” she added.  “You’re just so damn loveable you’ve got two amazing people who would do anything for you.”

“God, I do, don’t I?”  He leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder.  “People who would literally go through fire for me.  What do I do?  How can I not hurt him more?”

Nestling her face in his hair, she stroked his arm comfortingly.  “I think some pain is inevitable, love.  The best you can do is try to make it clear that you love him back.  Maybe not the way he wants, but he is a genius, he’s sure to know that you’re not just going to dump me by the wayside and have your merry way with him.  Not that I’d let you, anyway.”  She kissed his head.  “Which I also suspect he knows.”

“Be grateful and let him know he’s loved,” he mused.  “That can’t be too hard, can it?”

“Now that’s the man I’m marrying.”  Mary smirked.  “Can’t have you whinging about like a lovelorn pre-teen, now can we?”

“Oi, shut it, you.”  He sighed, heavily.  “He did better about filling out this form, at least.  He’s almost grasped the concept of a fill-in-the-blank.”

“Don’t you dare tease him about this.”  Mary poked him in the side while he thrashed.  “He can be cruel, yes, but you can tell it’s never deliberate.  Don’t you dare be cruel to him.”

“Truce!” He panted a bit, recovering from her merciless jabs.  “Yes, alright.  It’s not like I would.”

“You’d better not.”

“I won’t.  I swear.”  He continued, wryly, “He’s a better man than I am, and you both are far better than I deserve, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.”

“It seems like you have a type, then,” she teased.

“Evidently so.”  He pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth, which she happily returned.  “I need to think about this.  I’m going to get some air.”

Her expression flickered before settling into a gentle smile.  “Of course, love.  Don’t rush.  Figure out what you want to say and how you’re going to say it.”  She kissed him again, warm, friendly.  “Just remember, I’m good at sharing, but bloody awful at letting go.”

“Good.  I want someone who will show willing in this whole mess.”

“When it comes to willing, I’m your woman.”  She grinned.

“You’re always my woman, I hope.”

“John, my love,” she said, “you couldn’t lose me if you tried.  So go, solve your love life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foreshadowing! Let me know if it's awful, would you? I have no beta and I'm legitimately terrified of writing garbage. I keep getting hung up on word count (only one chapter was neither a 221B nor 1,000 words) and suspect I may be sacrificing detail to the altar of number-twitch.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John figures out how to respond. This corresponds to [chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2264470) of Love Note (form 22).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ariane DeVere’s wonderfully detailed transcript, from which was taken much of the scene herein.
> 
> As always, let me know if you spot any mistakes. The grand total of Brit-picking I'm doing consists of making sure Word is set to UK English.

There was a bizarre sound emanating from the lower floor.  It put Sherlock rather in the mind of a burglary he’d once solved, fairly prosaic but for the aspect of cruelty to animals as a distraction technique.  It sounded almost exactly like an owl with a broken wing.

Of considerably more importance was the sound of John speaking, then climbing the stairs.

It had been eight days since Sherlock had delivered his bleeding heart to the Watson-Morstan household, eight days of wondering if the last time he’d seen John would, in fact, be the last time he’d see John.  The hiatus was over, and the steps outside were neither angry nor plodding, but bright and excited.  It seemed as though they were going to overlook that bit of their lives and carry on as of old.

“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock’s gut twisted in a strange, not-unpleasant way.  Perhaps he needed to fuel the transport again?  He’d hardly touched his tea.

“What was that noise downstairs?” he asked.

John explained that Mrs Hudson had been laughing and in no way torturing nocturnal, predatory birds, and otherwise engaged in awkward small talk.  It was made a touch more awkward when he lost his grip on the eye he’d been using to determine the exact temperature required to boil vitreous humours, and even more so when John obliquely brought up the issue of the love letter.

“So,” John said, “the big question.”

Putting on his best face, Sherlock hummed vague acknowledgement.  John adapted his best _I am a reasonable human being and am decidedly calm and rational_ manner.

“The best man.”

“The best man?”  This was an unanticipated tangent.   Perhaps he was going to invoke examples for Sherlock to follow?

“What do you think?” John pressed.

“Billy Kincaid,” Sherlock blurted.

“Sorry, what?”

He explained Kincaid’s charitable works, progressive childcare, and other lifesaving measures.  As a medical man himself, John would surely appreciate someone who kept hospitals running.  And as a soldier, he surely wouldn’t begrudge a few garrottings.  If he wanted to hold Sherlock to a standard like that, Sherlock would be amenable.  He could take charity cases.

For some reason, though, John did not seem pleased with his choice.

“For my wedding!” John cut in.  “For me.  I need a best man.”

“Oh,” of course, John had opted for the time-honoured approach of ignoring the issue, “right.”  Taking the request as the peace offering it was obviously intended to be, he suggested Lestrade, and, when that was shot down, Stamford, even though the latter was a dubious choice at best.

“No,” John interrupted, “Mike’s great, but _he’s_ not my best friend.”

No, clearly not.  One of his army friends, then?  Perhaps he was here because he needed help tracking down someone still in Afghanistan.  Sherlock could do that, even if he had to call in a favour from his repellent sibling.

“Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life.”

Impossible.  There was nothing life-changing about an old tradition that required vast amounts of money spent on ridiculous things.  “Well…”

“No, it is!” John overrode his logic before he could voice it.  “It is, and I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world.”

Fair enough.  Perhaps that Murray chap that often commented on his blog?  Or moral support and advice from a fellow addict on how to approach his sister for the role?  Sherlock waited for direction.

The pause was growing awkward again.

“Mary Morstan,” John said.

Obviously.  And?

“…and…”

Yes, John.  Finish the sentence.

“…you.”

No.

Impossible.

Cruel.

Delete that.  It was less likely for John Watson to be sadistically cruel than it was for Mrs Hudson to practice random acts of avian cruelty.  Always possible, but the balance of probability was very, very low.  His unthinking cruelty, on the other hand, could be quite staggering.

After demanding a confession from him and ignoring him for over a week, John now makes his own confession of love whilst simultaneously asking Sherlock to participate in a ritual designed to separate them.

It was no more than he deserved, certainly.  Sherlock’s only request was for John to be happy, and this was what it amounted to: John would be happy if Sherlock gave him away.

Wait, no.  That wasn’t quite right.  John had just confessed to loving Sherlock at the same time he called Sherlock his best friend.

Of course!

This was John’s way of letting him know that his love was platonic.  _Philía,_ not _éros_.  Acceptable.  Pleasant, even.

“So, in fact,” he tried to confirm, “you mean…” he stumbled.

“Yes,” perfect, lovely, caring John said.

“I’m your…”

John nodded.

“…best…friend?”

But, no, John had also completed the sentence.  With “man”.  Not “friend”.   Which John apparently noted, because he winced a little and clarified, “Yeah, ’course you are. ’Course you’re my best friend.”

At John’s smile following those words, Sherlock knew he’d been neglecting his transport for too long.  The twist in his midsection gained a flutter, and he grabbed the mug of tea he’d been ignoring and slurped at the milky, sugary concoction. 

With eyeball.

Right.

“Well, how was that?” John asked, amused.

How was it?  John loved him, in whatever capacity he could.  John trusted him to see himself off with another of his loves.  And the tea which had grown cold was nicely warmed from exposure to the heated eye.

“Surprisingly okay,” Sherlock answered with complete honesty.

John stayed a bit longer to discuss preliminary logistics, and as he left he gripped Sherlock’s hand and inexpertly palmed him a piece of paper.  “I’ll see you soon,” he said, and trotted back down the steps and out into Baker Street, calling a chipper farewell to Mrs Hudson as he passed.

For his part, Sherlock retired to his bedroom, perched himself in a half-lotus in the centre of his bed, and unfolded the slightly damp note.

Reading the words John had chosen to express his gratitude— _gratitude!_ As if Sherlock’s affections were something to celebrate—and the many reasons and reactions John had marked on the ridiculous form, he felt warmth radiating out from his centre.  John Watson did, in some fashion, love Sherlock Holmes.

He wondered what it was about eyeball tea that made him feel this way.  Further experiments were in order.  It would help keep him off the cigarettes, too, and he knew John would be glad of that.

Humming contentedly, he reverently tucked this note of thanks in with the previous note of forgiveness and small vial of heroin.  They went well together.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary decides this needs a personal touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes along with [chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2264483) of Love Note (form 22).

John met her eyes, looked over at Sherlock where the man was improbably folded into his chair, then looked back at her with a question in his eyes.

She nodded: it was time.

“I’m starving,” Mary announced.  “Have you eaten today, Sherlock?”

He looked over at her and twitched a suspicious eyebrow.  “Some toast.  Possibly today, could have been late last night.”

“Right.”  John closed his laptop and set it aside.  “How does falafel sound?”

“Tolerable,” Sherlock drawled.

“That’s settled then,” Mary said brightly.  “Why don’t you stretch your legs a bit, love?  Sherlock and I can keep working on this.”

“Any preferences?” John asked, retrieving his jacket.

“You know what I like,” she replied saucily, proffering her face and accepting the goodbye kiss.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock shift a bit awkwardly in his seat.

“You two behave,” John admonished.  “I’ll be back soon.”

“Not a chance!” Mary chimed.

And then John trotted down the steps and out into Baker Street, leaving Mary and Sherlock alone at last.

“Right, out with it, then,” Sherlock demanded.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t play innocent, it doesn’t suit you.  John has clearly told you of my indiscretions, but you’re not here to defend him or stake your claim.  No, you’re in my territory, you want me to feel ‘comfortable’ and unthreatened.  You are quite secure in your claim on John—with cause, he adores you—and you don’t want the man you love and the man that loves him to be at odds, so you’re going to be _nice._ ”  He spat the last word as if it nauseated him.  “So go on, tell me about how it’s all _fine_ , that John doesn’t think any less of me, that you still want him to be around his best friend, and that I can back out of this position without judgement because it’s _cruel_ to make someone with an unrequited crush stand by the object of his affection and give him away to someone else.  Out with it, get it over with.”

“That was amazing.”  Mary grinned at him.

“What?”

“It was!  That was an absolutely fantastic analysis.  Wrong in all the particulars, but quite astounding nonetheless.”

“What do you mean, wrong?  I’m never wrong.  How was I wrong?”

She slid out of her chair and knelt before Sherlock, taking his unresisting hand in both of hers and looking up into his face as the brief moment of shock left him open and aching before his guard rose up once more.  “The ploy to get you alone was laughably transparent.  I do want you to be comfortable, and I know John loves me, and if you backed out of being John’s best man, he would be hurt, but no one would be angry with you.”

“So I was right,” Sherlock stated.

“Wrong!” Mary sang.  “How could John be cruel to want you in our wedding?  We want you to participate, love, not observe.  And I wanted to be alone with you so I could give you something.  It’s a bit of a tradition to give gifts to the wedding party, although that’s usually done at the rehearsal dinner, not the early planning stages.”  She fished in her jeans pocket for a moment before pulling out a folded piece of paper.  “I have a note for you, as well.”  She placed the paper in the hand she still held, folded his fingers around it, and sat back on her heels, beaming, as he slowly unfolded it.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

She leaned a bit to see around the certificate in his hands so she could catch a glimpse of his face.  His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were darting frantically over the paper in his hand.  She squeezed his knee companionably.  “It’s every word of it true, and nothing will change, no matter how many times you reread it,” she commented.

“You…” he trailed off.

“Yep.”

“You’re giving John to me?”

“In a manner of speaking.  He gave himself to you a long time ago.  This is just putting words to it, and telling you that it’s all fine.  I can’t stand in the way of love.”  She rested her chin on his leg and looked up at him.  “I can’t give you John any more than you can take him.  John does what he will.  All I can do is promise that I won’t take it amiss that John chooses to share himself between us.”

Slowly lowering the paper in his hand to rest on the leg Mary wasn’t occupying, he stared at her. 

“According to your final comment, you mean that rather literally.”

“Mm, yes, well, I wouldn’t say no.  He loves you, too, and I do want him to be happy.  Can you imagine how happy he’d be if he could have everything he wanted?”

He raised a hand, slowly, and caressed her hair.  She smiled up at him.

“But you don’t want me?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, love, but you’re not my type.  John wants you because he wants _you_ , not the package you’re in.  I want you for John, because you’re both so good for each other.  But, no, skinny, gangly men just aren’t my cuppa.”

“You’re telling the truth.  Your pulse jumped when you mentioned John, but nothing for me.”  He sat back.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  For what, exactly?”

“For loving John.  For keeping him together when I almost broke him.  I didn’t understand—I still don’t, really—but you held him together and let him mend.  He told me that you turned his life around.  I begin to see how.”

“Sherlock…” Mary blinked sudden tears back.  “May I hug you?”

There was a long enough pause that she considered retracting her request before he answered, “I suppose.”

That was all the permission she required to lever herself from the floor and drop into his lap, arms awkwardly wrapped around his stiff frame and squashed into the cushy chair back.  “Shall we put on a bit of a show for when John comes back?” she teased, then ran soothing hands over him as he jerked away.  “Just kidding, love,” she said.

“Mary, I don’t know what I want from this,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to know, darling.  We’ll have time to figure it out.  John just wants you in his life, however he can have you.  I want John happy, you want John happy.  All the rest is details.”

“Details are important.”

“And that’s why the bridesmaids are in lilac, not aubergine.”

A startled chuckle rose from him, shaking Mary from her grip on him.  “Mary Morstan, you are extraordinary.”

“Obviously.”  She dropped a tiny kiss on his cheek and withdrew from his chair.  “John Watson only loves extraordinary people.”

“And we love what he loves, because John is also extraordinary.”  There was a hint of a question in there. 

Mary had only one thing to say: “Exactly.”  She beamed at him. 

Hesitantly, he smiled back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes, relationships are brokered and broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely [unrequited1984](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited1984/pseuds/unrequited1984) for betaing. All remaining errors are my own and should be scorned as such.

When John returned with falafel and pita, tahini, baba ganoush, and tabouleh, it was to find his fiancée seated on the floor, resting her head on his best friend’s knee.  As he watched, Sherlock combed gentle fingers through Mary’s hair.

“Looks like that went well,” he commented, setting bags of food on the table.  “Are we all sorted, then?”  Arms freed of their burden he stripped off his jacket and hung it up before turning back to the seated pair.

Neither of them moved, but now they seemed to be having complicated silent negotiations communicated via blinking and lip twitches.

“Anything I need to know?” he asked.

In eerie unison, they both looked over at him…and smiled.

John cleared his throat.  “Delighted as I am that you two are getting along, is anyone going to speak or shall we resort to pantomime?”

Mary laughed; Sherlock’s grin grew wider.

“We’re sorted,” Mary said, lifting her arms, “but you two need to have a chat.”

John took her hands and hefted her from the floor.  “Pantomime might be easier,” he said.  “You know I’m rubbish at talking.”

“It’s not stopped you, yet,” was Sherlock’s contribution.  Mary snorted.

“Ta very much for that.”  John dropped a quick kiss on Mary and urged her towards the table with a loving pat on the arse, then held out a hand for Sherlock.  “Come on, then.  I got enough for all of us for a reason.”

Sherlock accepted the hand, but made no move to stand.  Instead he tugged John hesitantly closer and leaned forward, tilting his head up.

A quick glance at Mary showed only an encouraging grin, so John followed the undemanding pull.  He hesitated, wordlessly trying to gauge Sherlock’s sincerity, and then placed a chaste kiss on his friend’s generous mouth.

And then remained in place while Sherlock returned the gesture, rather more firmly.

After an interminable moment, John pulled back enough to see Sherlock’s incredible eyes with pupils blown wide.

“Genuine arousal, not pity,” Sherlock rumbled.  “Thank you, that’s enough to be going on with.  Hungry?”  Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock was out of the chair.  He slid around John where he stood, frozen, and headed over to where Mary was busily scooping masses of roasted eggplant onto half a piece of falafel with a wedge of pita.

Dazed, John watched them squabble good-naturedly over lunch before giving himself a shake and joining them.

\---

“Care for a shag?”

John spit out a mouthful of tea all over his laptop.  Cursing, he grabbed a nearby handful of cloth to mop the liquid out of his keyboard.  “Where did you come from?” he demanded.  “I thought you’d gone out.”

“With observation skills like that, it’s no wonder Sherlock despairs of you,” Mary laughed.  “Although I imagine he’ll be thrilled if you’ve ruined that cardigan.”

Eyeing the damp, woolly thing in his hand, John merely sighed.  “What’s this about a shag on offer, now?” he asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like, love.”  She pulled the laptop from his unresisting hands and set it aside before pushing him back on the bed.  “I would very much like to remove all of our clothing and engage in sexual relations.”  Dropping her Sherlock impression, she added, “If you’re amenable, that is.”

“Offer like that, how can I refuse?” John murmured while Mary nibbled thoughtfully at his neck.

“Good question,” she breathed.  “How _do_ you refuse?”

“I don’t,” he said, skimming his hands down her sides to grip her shirt and tug it up.

“Not me, no,” Mary said, withdrawing enough to let the shirt be pulled over her head before plastering herself back to John’s chest.  “But somehow you’ve managed it with Sherlock.”

John froze.  “What is this about, Mary?”

“Many things.”  She sat up, still straddling his hips, and looked down at him.  “Not least of which is that you are a very attractive man and I’d very much like to have sex with you in the extremely near future.”  She smiled, and his face softened in return.  “The fact is, John, that I know you love Sherlock as much as you love me, and I know Sherlock loves you more than anyone could have imagined being possible.  I’d like to know, for his sake, why you’ve been keeping yourself from him.”

“For his sake?”

“And for yours.  And a dash of sheer voyeurism.”  Her grin was brilliant.

He huffed a small laugh.  “Now that I believe, you kinky thing.”  He swatted playfully at her arse.  “Honestly, poor as your timing is here, the truth is that I’ve never turned him down.”  His mouth twisted a bit.  “He’s never asked.  Or offered.  Nothing more than kisses, just like his first note to me asked for.”

“And you,” she said, sliding hands up under his t-shirt and thumbing a perked nipple, “you never offered, or asked for more?”  Grinding her hips made him hiss.

“I didn’t want,” he reached up and cupped her breasts in his hands, “to pressure him into anything.”

Mary laughed brightly.  “Have you ever known Sherlock to be pressured into anything?”

Again, John froze.  “Yes,” he answered.  “At least twice.  The last time, he vanished for two years.”

“Because he was afraid of losing you,” Mary finished.  “I see your point.  If anyone could make him do something he didn’t want to, it would be you.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know about that, but I figured it would be best to let him lead anyway.”

“The two of you are utterly hopeless,” she said.  “Happily, you have me.”  She raised her voice, “Sherlock, darling, would you come in here please?”

Groaning, John pulled a pillow over his face.  “You are an evil woman,” he complained.

“Yes,” she agreed.  She shifted aside, letting Sherlock settle down opposite her, flanking John.  After waiting a bit, she poked Sherlock in the shoulder.

“Ah.  John,” Sherlock addressed the man still hiding in the bedding.  “I…appreciate your consideration, however unnecessary it wa—ow!”

John pushed the pillow away to see his two bare-chested loves on either side of him, Mary glaring at Sherlock and Sherlock rubbing at his chest where Mary had evidently pinched him.  He sighed.

“We’re doing this, then?” John asked.  “Right.”  He sat up and pulled his t-shirt over his head.  “Who’s first?”

\---

“How do you do it?” John asked.

“Easy,” Mary said, nuzzling further into his arms.  “I love you.  So long as I get part of you, I’m content.”

\---

“How do you do it?” John asked, some days later.

“The alternative is to not have you at all.”  Sherlock kissed the nape of his neck.  “Some John is better than no John.”

\---

“How can you do it?” Harry demanded.  “I’m not going to your sham wedding, Johnny.  Pick one of them, but stop being a cheating prick.  It’s disgusting.”

\---

“You’ll be taking your Sex Holiday together, of course.”

“Sherlock!  It’s a honeymoon, not a ‘sex holiday’.”

“You’re going on holiday with the intention of having copious amounts of sex.  What else could it be?”

“Give up, John.  Besides, I quite like the idea of taking a sex holiday with you.  When we return from ours, perhaps you and Sherlock can take your own?”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said over John’s splutters.  “John would be miserable without you.”

\---

“Are you really okay with us taking a honeymoon?”

“Obviously, why wouldn’t I be?”

\---

“This is oddly considerate of him.  I was sure we’d find Sherlock in our room for a shared wedding night.”

“I imagine the baby has thrown him off.”  John unzipped his new wife’s dress and admired the satin undergarments.

“On that note, apparently we don’t need to worry about condoms anymore.  Just in time for our Sex Holiday.”

“Don’t you start with that!”

\---

“I’m worried about Sherlock.  We’ve been back for three weeks, he’s not answered a single message, and every time I drop by he’s ‘conveniently’ out.  Between that and the way he acted at the wedding…I’m afraid I’m losing him again.”

\---

“It’s bad enough that the stupid bastard tried to fry his brain with street heroin, but now I find out that he’s not just avoiding me, he’s gone and dumped me.”

“Dumped you?” Mary gasped.  “Why would he do that?  He’s loved you more selflessly than anyone I could imagine.  What happened?”

“Gone in for the old tradition of shagging bridesmaids, it seems.  Screw drugs.  He ran his brother out of the flat because he was afraid Mycroft might find Janine in his bedroom.”

“Janine!  _My_ Janine?”

“Yeah.  Apparently it’s very ‘affirming.’”  John shook his head.  “I just don’t understand.  If he’s done with this, with us, why wouldn’t he just tell me?”

“Oh, love.  I swear, give me half a chance and I’ll kill him for doing this to you.”  She enfolded her husband in her arms and soothed his ragged breathing.

He laughed miserably.  “No, don’t kill him.  I’d rather just hurt him a bit.”  He breathed into her shoulder.  “It’s my fault, isn’t it?  I should have known that I can’t have you both.  It’s unfair to both of you.  Did it hurt you this much to watch me with him?”

“Hurt me?  No, but only because I knew that he loved you.  I thought we had an understanding: we don’t hurt John.  He’s broken that.”  She sounded fierce.

“He’s been hurting me longer than I’ve known you.  I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“He’s dead.”

John merely shook his head and tried to get himself under control.  “He’s made his choice.  How can I complain?  He’s left me to you, and that’s a good place to be.”

“Dead.”

\---

“God, Sherlock’s been shot.  He’s stable for now, but he’s flatlined at least once.  Mary, please, I need you.”

“I’m on my way.”

\---

“Is this some sort of karma?  I get upset because I think he’s moved on from me and get a reminder that it could be worse?”

“No, love.  If there is such a thing, and I don’t believe there is, then it’s his punishment for toying with you.  And with Janine, for that matter.  Although I think the tabloids are taking care of that punishment quite handily.”

They sat in the hospital cafeteria, Mary poking listlessly at overcooked pasta while John nursed a cup of overbrewed coffee.

“That bastard.  He proposed to her, kissed me in the elevator, and then all this happened.  And for what?  The slimy bastard still has the letters we were after.  Sherlock nearly died— _again—_ and not even a solved case to show for it.”

“How bad was the damage?  And what do you mean he kissed you?”

“The bullet came within three millimetres of his IVC.  Severe hepatic trauma.  The tiniest fraction of an inch in any direction probably would have guaranteed death, instead of just severely risking it.  We still nearly lost him.”  John swallowed hard.  “I can’t lose him again.  Not like that.”

“But he kissed you?”

“Stupid bugger.  He didn’t even consider that I might take it amiss that he was romancing a woman for a case.  Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ man.”

“So he didn’t dump you?”

“Evidently not.”  He stretched in his uncomfortable chair and slumped back down.  “I don’t know if I can keep doing this, though.  I love him.  I love you.  He loves me.  Of the three of us, you’re the only one not inflicting any pain.”

Mary frowned, but kept quiet.

\---

“Did you know the entire time?  You should have told me.  She said she’d kill you and I thought it was one of those things.  Where you exaggerate?  I’m so tired, Sherlock.  I can’t think, you’re trying to die on me, and the woman I thought I could trust is the one that put you here.  If you’d told me, I would have known.  God!” John’s voice cracked.  “I said I didn’t want you dead, just hurt.  Well done, her.”

Mary—or whoever she was—was gone, Sherlock was unconscious, and the nurse had just done his rounds.  John gave up, pulled his legs into the chair, buried his face in his knees, and sobbed.

\---

“Not that I don’t enjoy your company, John, but why are you here?”

“Are you telling me to leave?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then shut up, Sherlock.”

\---

“Is Mary coming by?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

\---

“I don’t understand why you’re still angry with her.”

“Perhaps because she lied to me, used me, and very nearly killed you?”

“But she didn’t.  And you’ve forgiven me for doing all of that.”

“It’s a bit different.”

“How so?  She loves you to the point of being unreasonable, lied to protect you, and made you think I was dead.  She’s never drugged you, sucker punched you, or extracted forgiveness under threat of death.  On balance, she’s treated you rather better than I have.  Plus, she’s carrying your child.  Why are you here?”

“I begin to wonder that, myself.”

\---

“Please, John.  You’re desperately unhappy.  You love her.  I’m not angry with her, why are you?”

John stared disbelievingly into pale eyes.  He then withdrew, groped blindly for his dressing gown, wrapped it around his naked form, and stalked from the room.

\---

“How can you forgive her so easily?”  John was barely audible.

Sherlock sipped his tea.  “How could you forgive me?”

“It wasn’t easy.  I just…needed you back in my life.”

“And you need her in your life, as well.  Any pain I’ve suffered was, let’s be honest, well deserved.”

“Stop talking, you arse.”

\---

“Sherlock, John’s still not responding to my messages.  Can you make sure he knows I’m having a sonogram next week?  I’d like him to be there.”

Sherlock eyed the cracked phone and the dent in the wall.  “Possibly not the best time.  I’d be honoured to join you, if you would permit it.”

\---

“Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Surely even a cursory glance would reveal that you’re holding a sonogram image.”

“How did you come by this and why are you giving it to me?” John asked, holding onto patience with his gnawed-down fingernails.

“I acompianied Mary to her appointment.  Surely you can deduce why you might be holding such a thing.”

John swallowed hard.  “How is she?”

“Fatigued, depressed, and subject to dreadful morning sickness—terribly inaccurate term, that—but she said to say she’s doing well.”

“Oh.”

\---

“You’re miserable without her, John.  Why can’t you forgive her?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t see why not.  What’s done is done.  Do you think she’s likely to shoot me again?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

 --- 

“Mummy is insisting that we come for Christmas.”

“Hmm.”

“If you don’t want to, I can say I need to stay with you.”

“Mmm.”

“Although I don’t think Mummy would let me get away with that.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’d quite like for you to come—speaking of, you may want to…”

John stayed in place until Sherlock’s orgasm was over, spit into a flannel, and then crawled up the bed to kiss Sherlock.  “You,” he whispered into his lover’s mouth, “are the chattiest bedmate I’ve ever had.”

“Will you come home with me for Christmas, John?”

“Yes, love.  I will.”

“The invitation extends to Mary.”

Slumped over and wrung out, John merely breathed into Sherlock’s shoulder for several minutes.  “Ask her,” he said at last.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock writes his pre-exile note. Neither John nor Mary are particularly pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the wait! I had a hard time bringing this one together, and the fact that it gelled at all is thanks to my lovely beta, [unrequited1984](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited1984/pseuds/unrequited1984).
> 
> This chapter corresponds with [this note](http://archiveofourown.org/works/933136/chapters/2296751) in Love Note (form 22), and I highly recommend giving it a glance before reading.

_It had been laughably simple to get the form, given that he was in complete lockdown. A coded gesture on camera, a word to one of Mycroft’s minions, and Sherlock had been given a very specific piece of paper and a single pen. He knew that Andrea—whatever she was calling herself these days—would ensure that his last note was found at a good time. All that mattered was to write it._

 

 

With the confusion around Moriarty appearing on screens across London and Sherlock’s aborted exile, it was several days before John and Mary made it home, and the last thing either of them expected was for the woman Mycroft sent to escort them back to look up momentarily from her mobile, hand them an envelope, and announce, “Your boyfriend is an idiot,” before closing the car window and leaving them on their doorstep.

Mary and John exchanged a wry look. “Inside,” Mary said, and he nodded agreement, although that didn’t stop him from sliding a finger under the envelope flap and tugging it open as they moved.

 

 

Name of recipient. _For the first time, it was not John alone to which Sherlock needed to confess. Clever, vicious Mary, Sherlock’s pale mirror, would also, for a wonder, care about his fate. Lovely, wonderful Mary. Sherlock knew she would keep their John safe._

 

 

“Oh, lord,” he sighed as Mary moved to rest on the bed, “another of his form letters.” He unfolded it and read the title. “This one’s for delivering bad news.”

“’Dear John, I’ve been exiled’?” Mary guessed.

“Mmm, dear John and Mary, actually.”

“I rate!” She grinned.

“We both do, it seems. He’s actually tried to fill in bits devoted to small talk. ‘How are you, I’m fine, weather is great,’ rubbish. Announcing his exile must really be troubling him.” He settled down next to his wife, leaning into her warmth as his eyes skimmed over the next part.

“Good. It troubled us enough. I’d hate to think he didn’t care.”

 

 

Positive adjective that does not reveal news _. These things were flexible. A positive verb would suffice. Sherlock would certainly be working, and John understood how Sherlock felt about work._

Fine/good/great _bollocks. Life would not be of concern for much longer, but it wouldn’t do to make that obvious just yet. Tolerable would have to do._

Geographic region _was simply Eastern Europe. The situation would likely call for a great deal of travel before he met his inevitable end._

Description of meteorological activity. _What bloody use was that? What difference could it possibly make? He scribbled something forgettable in the space and moved on._

Seasonable food you enjoy _was even more inane. An adjective became a verb, and a food would become work._

Thing recipient enjoys. _It would probably be in poor taste to bring up sex given John’s reaction to having it labelled a Sex Holiday, and he couldn’t imagine references to crime would allow this note to be delivered. That left the other thing he’d seen them both unequivocally enjoy: their upcoming child. He regretted that he would miss seeing a new Watson, likely fair-haired as its parents, probably a girl based on the sonogram images he’d seen, although at that size the foetus was still fairly indeterminate. At least he’d miss the tedium of mess and noise associated with an infant, and the incessant questions posed by a small child, and the inevitable fallout when, with the veneer of normalcy established by her parents meant that Sherlock would be shoved aside rather than embarrass the young woman who was emphatically not his daughter. Until then, it was better to stick to mentions of the baby in the near future rather than the woman that would never know him._

_There was an entire segment devoted to film. Why? How could this possibly be relevant? The weather was bad enough, the food was worse, but four entire blanks to fill in regarding a complete waste of time and brain power? He marked through it and continued on._

Life/work/everything _could only be good. Sherlock would be dead, but John, Mary, and their child would be alive. It’s not as though he could miss them or…anything while dead, as that was rather the definition of_ dead _, therefore everything must be good. He hadn’t gone to all this effort for it to be anything but good. Months of working on John to have him reconcile with Mary. Watching the idea of a child grow into reality. Sacrificing himself on the altar of John’s happiness. Everything was good. It_ had _to be._

Description of how you have been sleeping _._ _This was the most ridiculous form he’d filled out yet. Operating on the assumption that he would, in fact, be sleeping from time to time, he wrote something in and moved on._

 

 

There was no response, and when Mary looked over at her husband, he’d gone ghostly pale.

“John? Love?” She took the note from his nerveless fingers and read it for herself.

She smiled at his graceless efforts to discuss weather he would not have yet experienced, inability to think of a foodstuff he could mention, and complete avoidance of film discussion.

 

 

Begin foreshadowing the impeding bad news _. Down to the crux of it. How did one “foreshadow” their imminent demise? Sherlock had always favoured ripping off the plaster rather than dragging it out. Rather than attempting to lead into it gently, he, instead, put down something he hoped for._

 

 

She lost her smile at the mention of Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t invoke his brother casually, and the mention of him in a dream was troubling, to say the least. It was the next part that made her blood run cold. She could only imagine how it must have hurt to write.

 

 

Finally deliver the bad news here. _The easiest part, really. Confess that he knowingly condemned himself to death for their sake and that he had put the best possible face on it to spare John (and Mary) a little pain, for a little while._

Consequence of this unfortunate event. _Obvious. The consequence of a death sentence is clearly death. Andrea was reasonably clever, even if she had the terrible taste to be one of Mycroft’s minions, and would surely plant the note somewhere it would be found in six to seven months. The baby would have been born by then, so any residual grief should be minimal and quickly subsumed._

Positive adjective. _There was nothing in the world so positive as John Watson, in all his short-tempered, occasionally violent glory. As he’d said shortly after they’d met, John was a very good doctor, and he would save lives over anything else. It was Sherlock’s turn to save a life, and there were no better lives to save than that of John and his chosen family._

_He scribbled in something about sparing their child this particular story, because he knew John would continue telling tales long into the future, and something appallingly maudlin in thanks for the time they had let him share, the time he had squandered. He then carefully folded the note, absolutely did not press a lingering kiss to the paper, and lay back on his cell’s cot, his final letter resting atop the scar of Mary’s bullet in his chest._

 

 

_Oh, one last thing,_ the letter read, _this exile is a death sentence and when you find this note I’ll likely have been dead for weeks._ As if that was at all remotely acceptable. With an admonishment that they’d get used to it, instructions on what to tell their child, and the bluntest confession of love and gratitude she’d ever seen from him. The _bastard._

John’s fist striking the wall above the bed took her by surprise.

“John?” she said, concerned and no small bit devastated, herself.

“Don’t,” he bit out. He flinched back from her reaching hand. “Don’t touch me. I…” He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. “I need air. I’ll be back.”

“Just let me—”

“No!” he barked. “No. Just…stay here. Can you do that for me? Just stay here where I know where you are and let me—”

“Let you wander off into the streets while you’re furious? You’re not the only one that’s upset!”

“And why do you care?” John demanded. “Angry that you weren’t the one that killed him?”

Mary felt the blood drain from her face. John winced.

“I’m sorry,” they both said.

Long, tense moments passed before John said, “I’m going for a walk.”

Mary nodded. “I’ll be here,” she said.

She curled herself onto the bed in the most comfortable position her distended belly allowed, told herself that John had warned her that his anger would still come out from time to time, and briefly wondered what would have happened if she’d shot Sherlock in the head instead of the chest, or, better yet, if she’d managed to kill Magnussen rather than have those two idiots show up and ruin her perfect life.

Glancing at the bedside clock, she allotted herself ten entire minutes to cave to the pregnancy hormones wrecking her emotional control and have a good cry.

Okay, fifteen minutes, but that was it.

Fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, she mopped up her face and went looking for her laptop. She had a letter to write to a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

_He closed unquestionably dry eyes, retreated into his mind, and scruffled Redbeard’s fur for an indeterminate time._


End file.
